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PUBLISHED BTT SAMUEL C. aOODBICl 



THE 



TRAVELLER, 



THE 



DESERTED VILLAGE, 



AND 



(B'tjer }|?oem$u 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B. 



HARTFORD : 



PRINTED FOR SAMUEL G. GOODRICH, 

BY LINCOLN AND STONE. 

M DCCCXIX. 



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W fc'oo 



CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS. 



Dr. Johnson pronounced The Traveller to be 
the finest poem that had appeared since the time of 
Pope ; and this measured encomium, dictated by the 
great Aris larch of British Poets, was probably suffi- 
cient to content the ambition of the author. The 
Poem exhibits all the terseness, the polished versifi- 
cation, and the smartness, of the author of the Essay 
on xMan, whose style was the model of the poetasters 
of the day : but there is an originality in Goldsmith, 
which entitles him to rank higher than the highest 
form in the school of Pope. In his style he may 
perhaps be considered as an imitator : his thoughts 
are always his own, and are impressed with the gen- 
uine simplicity of his character. 

The Traveller is one of the few didactic poems, 
in which the poet and the moralist never part com- 
pany. The sentiments appeal to the imagination, as 
strongly as the descriptions by which they are illus- 
trated. The author himself engages our interest in 
the person of the Traveller, and his observations and 
remarks acquire a picturesque effect, from being 
associated with the scenery which suggested them. 
On this production, Goldsmith rested his hope of 
establishing his fame, and he bestowed his choicest 
hours on its composition. It was first printed in 
1765, and it completely succeeded in procuring for 
the author celebrity and patronage. Patronage how- 
ever — at least the patronage of the great — was not 
the object of his solicitude. He dedicated his Tra- 
veller to his brother, the Rev. Henry Goldsmith, 
a2 



6 

to whom part of the poem was originally addressed 
from Switzerland : " a man who, despising fame and 
fortune, had retired early to happiness and obscurity, 
with an income of forty pounds a year." " The only 
dedication I ever made," says Goldsmith in address- 
ing the Deserted Village to Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
" was to my brother, because I loved him better than 
most men." A circumstance is narrated by his bio- 
grapher, which affords additional proof, that a native 
spirit of independence and of careless disinterested- 
ness, formed a conspicuous trait of the poet's char- 
acter. The poem had procured for Goldsmith the 
unsolicited friendship of Lord Nugent, afterwards 
Earl of Clare ; and in consequence of his Lordship's 
favourable mention of the author, he received an 
invitation to wait on the Earl of Northumberland. 
The Earl was on the eve of departing as Lord Lieu- 
tenant for Ireland, and hearing that Goldsmith was a 
native of that country, he expressed his willingness 
to do him a kindness. The account which the poet 
himself gives of his answer to the gracious offer is, 
that he " could say nothing but that he had a brother 
there, a clergyman, that stood in need of help. As 
for myself," he adds, " I have no dependance on the 
promises of great men ; I look to the booksellers for 
support ; they are my best friends, and I am not 
inclined to forsake them for others." 

The Deserted Village was published in 1769. 
Like his other great ethic poem, it received the 
severest correction and the highest finishing he could 
bestow upon it ; and cost him, both in time and 
labour, far more than many of those compilations by 
which he earned a subsistence. He was an author 
from necessity ; he was a poet from feeling and from 
choice : but the spontaneous exercise of his imagi- 



nation, was a relaxation in which he rarely permitted 
himself to indulge. " Of all kinds of ambition," he 
remarks in the Dedication to the Traveller, " what 
from the refinement of the times, from different sys- 
tems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, 
that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest." 
These two great poems are the only fruits of that 
native ambition : his other works were written for 
the booksellers. 

Both The Traveller and The Deserted Vil- 
lage, were the result of the inspiration of genuine 
feeling. The characteristic sketches of the several 
nations visited by the Traveller, derived from 
actual observation the philosophical accuracy with 
which they are drawn : and it is remarkable how, in 
many instances, the more romantic estimate of the 
poet is corrected by the nearer view which the Tra- 
veller takes of the scenes that delight the imagina- 
tion ; we need only refer to that exquisite passage, in 
which he points out the evils which counterbalance 
the advantages of an inferior degree of civilization. 

" If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
Unknown to them when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy." 

Goldsmith has introduced himself into one of his 
landscapes, in which he alludes to the manner in 
which he made " the grand tour," — on foot, and 
"trusting to Providence for his resources." The 
lines are these : 

» How often have I led the sportive choir 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew : 
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill: 
Yet would the village praise my wondtous power. 
And dance, forgetful ot the noontide hour." 



8 



The account which he was accustomed to give of 
his own travels, so nearly resembled those of the 
wanderer, in the Vicar of Wakefield, that the 
following particulars are, not without good reason, 
conjectured by his biographer to refer to himself. 
" I had some knowledge of music, and now turned 
what was once my amusement into a present means 
of subsistence. Whenever I approached a peasant's 
house towards night-fall, I played one of my most 
merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodg- 
ing, but subsistence for the next day. I once or 
twice attempted to play to people of fashion, but 
they still thought my performance odious, and never 
rewarded me even with a trifle." His classical learn- 
ing also procured him a hospitable reception, and 
sometimes a gratuity, at the monasteries. " Thus," 
says he, " I fought my way from convent to convent, 
walked from city to city, examined mankind more 
nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of 
the picture." 

The professed design of The Traveller, is to 
establish as an axiom, " that every state has a par- 
ticular principle of happiness, and that this principle 
in each may be carried to a mischievous excess." 
The reader, however, concerns himself little with our 
author's position ; but as scene after scene is pre- 
sented to his imagination in all the force of contrast, 
and all the warmth and vividness of a poet's colour- 
ing, his admiration grows into sympathy, he realizes 
the feelings of the Traveller, and is at length pleased 
to find himself conducted so pleasantly to the grati- 
fying conclusion, that 

'• where'er we roam, 
His first, best country, ever is at heme." 



9 

The Deserted Village is the favourite poem of 
the two ; and perhaps no poem in the language, of 
equal length, has been more generally or repeatedly 
read by all classes, or has more frequently supplied 
extracts, to be spontaneously committed to memory. 
It abounds with couplets and single lines, so simply 
beautiful in point of sentiment, and so perfect in 
expression, that the ear is delighted to retain them 
for their melody, and the memory is unwilling to lose 
them for their truth. A person who has never 
perused this poem, or who having once perused it 
has suffered it to lay by him for a series of years, is 
surprised, on taking it up, to recognise at every para- 
graph, lines with which he has long been familiarized, 
although not aware of their author. Pope himself, 
with all his sparkling antitheses, which serve admi- 
rably to point a sentence, is not referred to with that 
fondness with which a quotation is made from The 
Deserted Village, because Pope rarely, if ever, 
comes home to the feelings like Goldsmith, or appeals 
to those best affections of our nature which conse- 
crate the names of country and of home. Milton, 
especially in his Comus, Shakspeare, and in an 
inferior degree Thompson, and Young, and Cowper, 
may be enumerated as the only poets, besides Pope 
and Goldsmith, whose works have come into general 
use as text books of expression, and which have thus 
become in a measure identified with the language. 
It is unnecessary to point out how widely these all 
differ in style and character. Goldsmith's character- 
istic is a prevailing simplicity, which conceals the 
artifices of versification. His delineations of rural 
scenery, and his village portraits, are marked by sin- 
gular fidelity and chasteness : they are delicately 
finished, without being overwrought ; and there is a 



10 



mixture of pleasantry and tender melancholy through- 
out the poem, which adds much to its interest. 

There can be no doubt that Auburn was employed 
to designate the scene of Goldsmith's earliest local 
attachment. The landscape, the characters, and the 
circumstances of the tale, all appear to have had a 
real existence in the eye and in the heart of the poet. 
It is no objection, that the scene is purely English : 
the poem was designed for English readers ; but the 
feelings and the remembrances which it embodies, 
were drawn from his native soil. It is supposed that 
the village of Lishoy, in the county of Westmeath, 
Ireland, where his early years were passed, is the 
spot to which he pays this tribute of affection. His 
letters, no less than his poetry, breathe an ardent 
attachment to his native country. He speaks of his 
" unaccountable fondness" for a country out of which 
he brought nothing except his brogue and his blun- 
ders ; describes himself as suffering from the maladie 
de pays; and confesses that he carries his fondness 
to the souring of the pleasures he possesses. " If I 
go to the Opera, where Signora Columba pours out 
all the mazes of melody, I sit and sigh for Lishoy 
fire-side, and Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night 
from Peggy Golden : If I climb up Flamstead Hill, 
than where Nature never exhibited a more magnifi- 
cent prospect, I confess it fine ; but then I had rather 
be placed on the little mount before Lishoy gate, and 
there take in, to me the most pleasing horizon in 
nature." 

In confirmation of this conjecture, it seems that 
the inhabitants of Lishoy pointed out, to a recent 
visitant of the spot, remains of the principal objects 
referred to in the poem, the situation of which exactly 
corresponded with the description there given. 



11 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 

The hawthorn bush " 

some circumstances, too,* which occurred at Lishoy 
during our poet's life, and which issued in the emi- 
gration of some hundreds to other parts of the coun- 
try and to America, may well be supposed to have 
suggested the subject of the poem. 

The " Village Preacher," which has every appear- 
ance of being drawn from the life, answers to the 
character of the poet's brother, to whom he dedicated 
his Traveller, and of whom he always spoke in 
> terms of the warmest affection. It is singular, that 
the income on which, in the Dedication to the Tra- 
veller, Goldsmith represents his brother as retiring 
to happy obscurity, exactly corresponds with the 
stipend of the village preacher ; 

«» — passing rich with forty pounds a year." 

He was curate of Lishoy upon a small salary, and 
died ", within four years preceding the publication of 
The Deserted Village." The "Broken Soldier" 
also is supposed to have had a prototype in the per- 
son of a schoolmaster, from whom Goldsmith had 
received instruction in reading, writing, and arith- 
metic, and who had served as a quarter-master in 
Queen Anne's wars. " Having travelled over a con- 
siderable part of Europe," we are informed, "and 
being of a romantic turn, he used to entertain Oliver 
with his adventures; and the impression they made 
upon his Scholar, was believed by his family to have 
given him that wandering and unsettled turn which 
so much appeared in his future life." 

* Goldsmith's Poetical Works, with topographical illus- 
trations of the Deserted Villag'e, by the Rev. Mr. Newell. 
4to. 1811, p. 72. 



12 

Among Goldsmith's minor poems, the beautiful 
ballad of Thu Hermit deserves to be particularized. 
It was first printed in the year 1765 5 in which year 
Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore, published 
his elegant collection, entitled " Reliques of Ancient 
English Poetry." That work contains a tale framed 
on a plan so similar that the Doctor was taxed by 
the scribblers of the day with having taken his ballad 
from the " Friar of Orders Gray." This charge he 
repelled in a letter to the editor of the St. James' 
Chronicle, June, 1 767 with all a poet's feverish solici- 
tude for fame, asserting the priority of his own poem. 
But it appears from Dr. Percy's statement, that the 
story on which both poems are founded, was taken 
from a very ancient ballad in that collection, begin- 
ning " Gentle herdsman." This ballad Dr. Gold- 
smith had seen and admired long before it was prin- 
ted ; and some of the stanzas he appears, perhaps 
undesignedly, to have imitated in The Hermit. 

The following additional stanza, which should 
come after the twenty-ninth, is given in the octavo 
edition of his works, on the authority of the Bishop 
of Dromore. 

44 And when beside me in the dale, 

He carol'd lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 

And music to the grove " 

The remainder of Goldsmith's Poems come under 
the description of jeux d'esprit. Some of them 
scarcely deserve a place in a collection of English 
poetry, being more fit for a jest-book or a collection 
of songs and epigrams : of this character are " The 
Gift," the imitation of a French madrigal, and the 
Epitaph on Ned Purdon, which ought never to have 
appeared as the production of the author of The 
Deserted Village. 



13 



The poetical works of Oliver Goldsmith form, 
however, as is well known, but a small proportion of 
the fruits of his industry, and the proofs of his genius. 
His fame, as a prose-writer, rests on scarcely inferior 
pretensions to excellence. His " Citizen of the 
Wo r l j >," originally published in a periodical paper 
called "The Ledger;" his occasional "Essays," first 
published in a collected form in 1765; and, above 
all, his inimitable tale "TheVicarof Wakefield ; 
exhibit a fertility of intellectual resources, a fund of 
wit and humour, and a familiar acquaintance with 
human nature, which entitle him to rank among the 
foremost of the English classics. The latter produc- 
tion, like Johnson's Rasselas, was written from the 
spur of necessity. Goldsmith composed the tale in 
his lodgings, in Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, 
"attended," as we are informed by his biographer, 
" with the affecting circumstance of his being under 
arrest." Through the friendship of Dr. Johnson, he 
obtained from Newberry, the bookseller, sixty pounds 
for the manuscript, — a handsome sum in those times ; 
especially considering that Goldsmith's fame had not 
then been established by the publication of his Tra- 
veller. This sum procured his enlargement: but 
the bookseller kept the manuscript by him two years 
before he ventured to publish it. 

Poor Goldsmith was but too subject to these pecun- 
iary difficulties, into which he was often betrayed 
by his imprudence, and then he escaped by the force 
of his talents. In a letter to his relative, Daniel 
Hodson, Esq. of Lishoy, he alludes to his precarious 
mode of livelihood, and refers to Scarron, who used 
jestingly to call himself the Marquis of Quenault, 
from the name of the bookseller that employed him : 
" and why," he adds, u may I not assert my privilege 

B 



14 



and quality on the same pretensions ?" Then, remark- 
ing that they had in Ireland a very indifferent idea of 
a man who writes for bread, he consoles himself with 
the recollection, that " Swift and Steele did so in the 
earliest part of their lives." Of all the literary arti- 
sans of the day, however, Goldsmith, if not the least 
industrious, was not the least successful. He had 
no reason to complain of his patrons, the booksellers. 
For one compilation he received eight hundred and 
fifty pounds ; and the money which he earned by 
similar undertakings, exclusive of the profits arising 
from his comedies, would, with habits of prudence 
and decent economy, have rendered him independ- 
ent, if not affluent. It is said that he composed his 
prose works with singular facility, scarcely a correc- 
tion occurring in whole quires of his histories ; but 
his versification was submitted to patient and inces- 
sant revisal. 

The notice of Dr. Goldsmith's productions has 
naturally lead to the exhibition of his literary char- 
acter, and with this, one would think, the reader's 
curiosity might be satisfied : but it is remarkable, 
that while with respect to the historian, the natural 
philosopher, and other authors, we are contented 
with the display which they make of themselves in 
their works, it is otherwise with a man whom we 
regard as a genuine poet. Immediately a desire is 
excited to learn his physiognomy, to be made ac- 
quainted with the details of his private history, and 
if possible to be admitted to more confidential inter- 
course. How is this to be accounted for? Is the poet 
necessarily, a more elevated and interesting character 
than the prose-writer ? On the contrary, is it not too 
often found, that the imagination has been cultivated 
or indulged, at the expense of the proportionate devel- 



15 



opement of the other faculties, and at the expense 
of those moral habits which have so important an 
influence on the conduct in after-life? Is not that 
combination of genius and practical imbecility, of 
exalted faculty and indecision or incapacity of action, 
which marks too many of those characters, the natu- 
ral result of a partial, and therefore imperfect, cul- 
tivation of the mental powers ? How often is our 
curiosity to be made* acquainted with the author of 
works of fascinating beauty and tenderness, gratified 
to the loss or the diminution of the pleasure which 
they at first awakened ! But the fact is, that the very 
name of the poet appeals to the imagination in a way 
in which that of no other writer does. His works 
present to us an ideal character, framed of the ele- 
ments of sentiment and feeling scattered through his 
works 5 and it is with this ideal character, from the 
strong sympathy his sentiments have awakened, that 
we desire to hold more intimate intercourse. Yet 
knowledge the most extensive — feeling the most 
refined — and rectitude of principle, are often disso- 
ciated so widely, as to appear to have no necessary 
connection with each other; and when we find this 
practically illustrated in the memoirs of the poet, it 
is not easy to renew the pleasing illusion, and to 
recover the features of the imaginary portrait which 
the reality has displaced. 

Oliver Goldsmith was born on the 29th of Novem- 
ber, 1728. The place of his birth has been contro- 
verted. Dr. Johnson, in the epitaph for his monu- 
mental stone, states it to have been Pallas, in the 
parish of Forney, county of Longford ; which is 
sanctioned by his biographer, the Bishop of Dromore. 
The record of his admission at college describes him 
as born in the county of Westmeath, which may have 



16 



arisen from his father having, subsequently to his 
birth, obtained the living of Kilkenny West, in that 
county. Another account states him to have been 
born at Elphin, in the county of Roscommon, where 
his maternal grandfather, the Rev. Oliver Jones, 
resided, as master of the Diocesan School. Here 
he received part of his education. Oliver was the 
second among five sons, and born unexpectedly, 
after an interval of seven years from the birth Of the 
former child. Of his elder brother, Henry, their 
father had formed the most sanguine hopes from the 
early promise he gave of distinguishing himself; 
and the liberal education which Mr. Goldsmith was 
bestowing upon him, bearing hard upon his small 
income, he could only propose to bring up Oliver to 
some mercantile employment. Henry, according to 
the account given by his elder sister, Mrs. Hodson, 
u unfortunately married at the early age of nineteen ; 
which confined him to a curacy, and prevented his 
rising to preferment in the church. 7 ' 

Mrs. Hodson describes her brother Oliver as ex- 
hibiting, even in childhood, all the waywardness, as 
well as the intellectual signs of genius. At the age 
of seven or eight, he amused his friends with his 
poetical attempts. He was the infant Edwin, as 
portrayed in the Minstrel— in every respect but his 
personal appearance. This, it seems, was so far 
removed from grace and beauty, that when being but 
nine years old, he was one day required to dance a 
hornpipe before a large assembly at his uncle's, the 
musician, very archly as he supposed, compared him 
to iEsop dancing. The fiddler, however, had sud- 
denly, as we are informed by Mrs. Hodson, the laugh 
turned against him, by Oliver's stopping short in the 
dance with this retort : 



17 



" Our herald hath proclaim' d this saying", 
See .3£Isop dancing, and his monkey playing 1 ." 

This smart reply, it is said, decided his fortune, for 
from that time his friends determined to send him 
to the university. After passing some years in the 
schools of Athlone, and at Edgeworth's Town, under 
the Rev. Patrick Hughes, he was entered as a sizer 
at Dublin College, on the 1 1th of June, 1744, under 
the Rev. Theaker Wilder, one of the fellows ; a man 
of harsh temper and violent passions, with whom 
Goldsmith, by his irregularities, was soon involved in 
most disagreeable broils, and from whom he experi- 
enced the most irritating treatment, and unremitting 
persecution. Once he left college, having disposed 
of his books and clothes, with the resolution to leave 
the country ; but he was soon driven back, like the 
prodigal, by necessity. While he was at college, 
soon after this event, his worthy father died, of whom 
he gives an account in the Citizen of the World, 
under the character of the man in black. His uncle, 
the Rev. Thomas Contarine, who had contributed to 
support him at college, pressed him to prepare for 
holy orders ; but an unsettled turn of mind, an un- 
quenchable desire of visiting other countries, and 
perhaps an ingenuous sense of his unfitness for the 
clerical profession, conspired to disincline him to the 
church ; and when at length he offered himself as a 
candidate to Bishop Synge, he was on some account 
or other refused ordination. The ill treatment and 
mortifications, indeed, to which he was subjected at 
college from his savage tutor, completely discouraged 
him ; and from despondence he sunk into habitual 
indolence: yet his genius, it is said, sometimes 
dawned through the gloom ; and " translations from 
the classics, made by him at this period," were long 
b2 



18 

" remembered by his contemporaries with applause." 
He was not however admitted to the degree of 
Bachelor of Arts, till February 27, 1749, O. S. two 
years after the regular time. 

At length it was decided that he should be sent to 
Edinburgh to be bred to the study of physic, where 
he was fixed by the persevering kindness of his un- 
cle Contarine about the end of the year 1 752. Here 
again poor Oliver became the hero of many an adven- 
ture, of many a tale of blunders and difficulties, and 
displayed all the weakness of his character. The 
desire to amuse, and the love of display, seduced 
him into buffoonery: his knowledge was not equal to 
his genius, and he did not endeavour by regular study 
to add to his acquisitions. His health was consi- 
derably injured by dissipation, and his pocket not 
unfrequently drained by his extravagance. He went 
however through the usual courses at Edinburgh $ 
and then, with the consent of his beneficent uncle, 
removed to Leyden, in order to complete his medical 
studies. The story of his leaving Edinburgh preci- 
pitately, in order to avoid being arrested for a debt 
contracted by a fellow student, for which it is said he 
had become security, is discountenanced by a letter 
written by himself to his uncle from Leyden, in which 
he ascribes his detention in prison at Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne to a very different cause — his being found 
in company with some Scotchmen in the French ser- 
vice — and he expresses his gratitude to God for the 
interposition, as the vessel in which he would other- 
wise have sailed, was wrecked at the mouth of the 
Garonne, and all the crew were lost. 

He resided at Leyden about a year, where he suf- 
fered all the vicissitudes of fortune at play, till at j 
length, stripped of every shilling by this fatal passion 



19 



for the gaming table, he determined to quit Holland ; 
and he accordingly set out on his travels with only 
one clean shirt, and pennyless. His method of tra- 
velling, and the means to which he resorted for sub- 
sistence, have been already detailed. He travelled 
in this way through Flanders, and some parts of 
France and Germany ; he passed some time in Swit- 
zerland; from thence he went to Padua, where he 
staid six months, and visited all the northern part of 
Italy. In the mean while, he lost his good uncle and 
generous benefactor, the Rev. Mr. Contarine ; and 
he landed at Dover about the breaking out of the 
war in 1766, destitute of any other resources than 
his talents. He arrived in London in the extremity 
of distress, " without," as he himself expresses it, 
" friends, recommendation, money, or impudence." 
The first situation which he obtained was that of 
assistant in an academy ; but the circumstances at- 
tending this irksome employment soon rendered it 
intolerable. The want of present subsistence, sub- 
sequently led him to apply to several apothecaries, 
to be admitted as a journeyman ; but his thread-bare 
coat, uncouth figure, and broad Irish dialect, exposed 
him to repeated insult and unfeeling repulse. At 
length a chemist near Fish Street Hill, moved by 
his forlorn condition, and perhaps surprised at his 
medical knowledge, employed him in his laboratory, 
where he was discovered by an old fellow-student 
of his at Edinburgh, Dr. Sleigh, who affectionately 
received him into his family, and offered him the 
use of his purse. 

Thus assisted, we are informed, he commenced 
medical practitioner at Bankside, from whence he 
afterwards removed to the vicinity of the Temple ; 
but although he had plenty of patients, he confessed 



20 



he got no fees. Here however he had leisure to have 
recourse to his pen \ and by his combined exertions 
in literature and medicine, " by a very little practice 
as a physician, and a very little reputation as a poet," 
he made " shift to live." While thus endeavouring 
to support himself, he received an offer from the son 
of the Rev. Dr. Milner, a dissenting minister who 
kept a classical school, of some eminence, at Peck- 
ham to take the charge of his father's school during 
Dr. Milner ? s illness, which at length proved fatal. 
Through the same gentleman, he obtained, at the 
expiration of this engagement, a regular appointment 
to be physician to one of the factories in India. This 
was in the } r ear 1758; and to prepare for his equip- 
ment he drew up proposals for printing his work on 
" The present State of Literature in Europe." It 
was about this time that, in a letter to his brother 
Henry, he attempted to dissuade him from sending 
his son to college, if he had " ambition, strong pas- 
sions, and an exquisite sensibility for contempt y* he 
conjures him not, above all things, to let him ever 
touch a romance or a novel ; urging that books teach 
very little of the world. Then, after affirming that 
6i the greatest merit in a state of poverty would only 
serve to make the possessor ridiculous," he adds : 
— " Teach then, my dear sir, to your son, thrift and 
economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's example 
be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books 
to be disinterested and generous, before I was taught 
from experience the necessity of being prudent. I 
had contracted the habits and notions of a philoso- 
pher, w T hile I was exposing myself to the insidious 
approaches of cunning ; and often by being, even 
with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I for- 
got the rules of justice, and placed myself in the 



21 



very situation of the wretch who thanked me for my 
bounty." 

Dr. Goldsmith gradually cooled in his desire for 
an East-India voyage. His next engagement was as 
a writer in the Monthly Review, the publisher and 
proprietor of which, Mr. Ralph Griffiths, he met with 
at Dr. Milner's table. The terms offered him, were 
his board and lodging and a handsome salary : and 
the agreement was to last for one year. In fulfilling 
his part of it, Goldsmith declared he usually wrote 
for his employer every day from nine o'clock till two : 
but at the end of seven or eight months, it was dis- 
solved by mutual consent, and our author took lodg- 
ings in Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey ; — a wretch- 
ed dirty room, in which there was but one chair, so 
that when he was honoured with a visitant, he was 
obliged himself to sit in the window. Here he fin- 
ished his " Inquiry into the State of Literature." — 
His next removal was to Wine Office Court, where 
he wrote as has been already mentioned, the Vtcar 
of Wakefield. In this residence he received his 
first visit from Dr. Johnson, on May 31st, 1761 ; 
when he gave an invitation to him, and much other 
company, many of them literary men, to a supper in 
these lodgings. Among the company invited was 
Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore. In 1763 
he took lodgings in Canonbury-House, Islington, 
where he was employed principally in compiling 
and editing publications for his patron, Newberry 
the bookseller. In 1764, he fixed his abode in the 
Temple, first in the library staircase, afterwards in 
the King's Bench Walk, and ultimately at No. 2, in 
Brick Court, where he had chambers on the first 
floor elegantly furnished. Thus gradually did this 
singularly gifted man, by the mere force of his tal- 



22 



ents, under every disadvantage of person and fortune.? 
emerge from the obscurity of the most abject pover*i 
ty, into celebrity and comparative affluence. 

About 1 764 was formed the celebrated literary! 
club, of which Dr. Goldsmith was one of the first! 
members, together with Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr.jj 
Johnson, Mr. Burke, Dr. Nugent, Sir John Haw-lj 
kins, Mr. Langton, Mr. Topham Beauclerk, Mr.!j 
Chamier, and Mr. Dyer. They met and supped| 
together every Friday evening, at the Turk's Head| 
in Gerrard Street, Soho. 

In 1768, (January 29th,) his play of the Goodna- 
tured Man, after being declined by Garrick, was pro-P. 
duced at Co vent Garden. In the following year, at J 
the establishment of the Royal Academy, his friend 
Sir Joshua Reynolds procured for him the appoint-* 
ment of Professor of Ancient History'; a mere com- 
plimentary distinction, attended with neither emolu-jj 
ment nor trouble. His letters to his friends, written 
at this period, exhibit an unsophisticated simplicity! 
of mind, and breathe the same ardent attachment to j 
his country, and the same affection for his u poor 
shattered family," as ever. 

In 1773, Dr. Goldsmith's second comedy, "She 
Stoops to Conquer," made its appearance at Covent 
Garden. It had a surprising run, contrary to the! 
manager's anticipations, and produced the author a ! 
clear profit of eight hundred pounds. This, we are 
informed, " brought down upon him a torrent of con- 
gratulatory addresses and petitions from less fortu- 
nate bards, whose indigence compelled them to so- 
licit his bounty, and of scurrilous abuse from such as,*! 
being less reduced, only envied his success." The 
"London Packet," of Wednesday, March 24th, 
J 773, contained a letter signed Tom Tickle, which 



23 

being pointed out to him by the officious kindness of 
a friend, Goldsmith went to the publisher, (T. Ev- 
ans of Paternoster Row,) and after arguing on the 
malignity of this unmerited attack upon his charac- 
ter, applied a cane to the bookseller's shoulders. A 
scuffle ensued, in which the Doctor got his share of 
•blows, till Dr. Kenrick, "a noted libeller," and the 
suspected author of the letter, stepped forward from 
the publisher's back-room, and parting the combat- 
ants, sent the Doctor severely bruised, home in a 
coach. The affair long employed the discussion of 
the newspapers 5 and an action was threatened for 
the assault 5 but it was at length compromised, and 
i the poet published an address upon the subject in 
the Daily Advertiser, written so much in the 
nervous style of Dr. Johnson, that it was at first sup- 
posed, though without foundation, to be his. 

His last publication was his " History of animat- 
ed Nature," in eight volumes, octavo, which appear- 
en in 1 774. In the spring of that year, being embar- 
rassed in his circumstances, owing to his profusion 
and liberality, but still more to his pernicious attach- 
ment to gaming, he was attacked with a severe fit of 
the strangury. To this complaint he was subject, 
owing probably to his intemperate application at 
times, for several weeks together, without exercise, 
to some of his compilations ; on the completion of 
which he used to give himself up to all the gaieties 
of the metropolis. His indisposition being in the 
present instance aggravated by mental distress, ter-^ 
urinated in an alarming fever. Contrary to the ad- 
j vice of the medical gentlemen whom he called in, he 
had recourse to James' Fever-powder, from which 
he had in a similar attack received benefit. From 
this time the progress of the disease was as unfa- 



24 



I 



vourable as possible ; the symptoms became daily 
more alarming; and on Monday, April 4th, he ex- 
pired, in the forty-sixth year of his age. It was at 
first proposed by his friends to honour him with a 
public funeral ; but this idea was abandoned, prob- 
ably from the embarrassed circumstances in which 
he died, and he was privately interred in the Tem- 
ple burial-ground, at five o'clock in the evening of 
the Saturday following his departure. A marble | 
monument was subsequently raised, by means of a 
subscription among his friends, which is placed be- 
tween those of Gay and of the Duke of Argyle, in 
Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey. 

It is impossible to peruse the memoirs of Gold- 
smith without participating, in some degree, in those 
mixed feelings of admiration and regret, of friendly 
esteem and compassion, with which he appears to 
have been regarded by his contemporaries, — feelings 
corresponding with the contrarieties that met in his 
character. The social and literary attractions of 
that man must have been considerable, who was ad- 
mitted as the friend and compeer of Johnson, and 
Burke, of Reynolds and Percy, of Garrick and Beau- 
clerk. Yet this same individual, from his vanity 
and his blunders, together with a misplaced ambi- 
tion of being a wit, often made himself in conversa- 
tion ridiculous. u Nothing could be more amiable," 
we are told, " than the general features of his mind." 
He was generous in the extreme, too often sacrific- 
ing prudence and justice to the impulse of his feel- 
ings, and continually becoming the dupe of imposi- 
tion. But his conduct was too much at variance 
with any settled religious principles. Garrick de- 
scribes him, in a line, as a most heterogeneous com- 
pound of qualities. 



25 

" This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poel."' 

Dr. Johnson, who took every opportunity of eulo- 
gizing the genius, and vindicating the fame of Gold- 
smith, for whom he seems to have had a sincere 
friendship, observed on one occasion, " Dr. Gold- 
smith is one of the first men we have as an author, 
and he is a very worthy man too. He has been 
loose in his principles, but is coming right." This 
candid sentence upon his character, does credit to 
Johnson's feelings 5 it is melancholy to reflect that 
Goldsmith did not survive long enough to realize the 
hope of his friend. While his works will never fail 
to awaken emotions of tender delight and admira- 
tion, by the genius which adorns them, and the gen- 
erous sentiments with which they abound, that ex- 
ample which the " poor wandering uncle" besought 
his brother to place before the eyes of his son as a 
beacon, will continue to speak still more impressive- 
ly the language of admonition and instruction. — 
How far do the dangers of going wrong preponde- 
rate over the chances of " coming right !" 



CONTENTS, 



Page. 

The Traveller 25 

The Deserted Village 53 

The Hermit 79 

The Haunch of Venison, a poetical Epistle 93 

Retaliation 101 

Postscript and Supplement . Ill 

The Double Transformation 116 

The Logicians refuted 122 

A new Simile 125 

Description of an Author's Bed-Chamber 129 

The Clown's Reply 131 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 132 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 134 

On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning... 136 

The Gift 1 37 

Stanzas on Woman 139 

Lines attributed to Goldsmith 140 

Songs 141 — 144 

Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec 145 

Epitaphs ...146, 147 

Prologues and Epilogues 148—164 



THE 



»l 



A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 



FIRST PRINTED IN 1765. 



TO THE 

REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 

DEAR SIR, 

am sensible that the friendship between us can 
acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a Dedi- 
cation ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to 
prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline 
giving with your own. But as a part of this poem 
was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to 
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of 
it, when the reader understands that it is addressed 
to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has re- 
tired early to happiness and obscurity, with an in- 
come of forty pounds a year. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of 
your humble choice. You have entered upon a 
sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the 
labourers are but few ; while you have left the field 
of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the 



28 

harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds 
of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, 
from different systems of criticism, and from the 
divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame 
is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among un- 
polished nations 5 but in a country verging to the 
extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come 
in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less 
laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, 
and at length supplant her 5 they engross all that 
favour once shown to her, and though but younger 
sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the 
powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mis- 
taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What 
criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of 
blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests 
and iambics, illiterative care and happy negligence ! 
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; 
and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has 
always much to say 5 for error is ever talkative. 



29 

But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- 
gerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the 
judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind 
is once infected with this disease, it can only find 
pleasure in what contributes to increase the distem- 
per. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pur- 
suing man, after having once preyed upon human 
flesh, the reader who has once gratified his appetite 
with calumny, makes ever after the most agreeable 
feast upon murdered reputation- Such readers gene- 
rally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be 
thought a bold man, having lost the character of a 
wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet : 
his tawdry lampoons are called satires ; his turbu- 
lence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. 

What reception a poem may find, which has nei- 
ther abuse, party, nor blank verse, to support it, I 
cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims 
are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, 
I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have 
endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happi- 
ness in states that are differently governed from our 
c2 



30 

own 5 that every state has a particular principle of 
happiness, and that this principle in each may be car- 
ried to a mischievous excess. There are few can 
judge better than yourself how far these positions 
are illustrated in this poem. 

v . | I am, 

DEAR SIR, 

Your most affectionate brother, 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 




Evil now -wnere Alpine solitudes ascend. 

I sit -me do"WH a. pensive hour to speech 
AxlcL pla.r'd oil high, ahove the stoxin's caieer. 



I :; 



TRAVELIBR 



'UliMSHKH HY S. G. GO (11) RICH 



THE 



TRAVELLER. 



Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Sheld, or wandering Po; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door 5 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a length'ning chain. 
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, . 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire 5 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair 5 



32 THE TRAVELLER, 

Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 

Where all the ruddy family around 

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 

Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 

And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care 5 
ImpelPd with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And plac'd on high, above the storm's career, 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear 5 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ? 



THE TRAVELLER. 33 

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 

These little things are great to little man ; 

And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 

Exults in all the good of all mankind. 

Ye glitt'ring towns,with wealth and splendour crown'd. 

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round, 

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, 

Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale, 

For me your tributary stores combine ; 

Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleas'd with each good that heav'n to man supplies : 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small 5 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consigned, 



34 THE TRAVELLER. 

Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest. 
May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know 1 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease: 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind : 
As different good by art or nature giv'n, 
To diff 'rent nations makes their blessings ev'n. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call 5 



THE TRAVELLER, 35 

With food as well the peasant is supply'd 

On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side ; 

And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 

These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 

From art more various are the blessings sent ; 

Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content : 

Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest, 

That either seems destructive of the rest. 

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails ; 

And honour sinks where commerce long prevails : 

Hence ev'ry state, to one lov'd blessing prone, 

Conforms and models life to that alone : 

Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 

Till, carried to excess in each domain, 

This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
Here for awhile, my proper cares resigned, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry blast. 



36 THE TRAVELLER, 

Far to the right, where Appenine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends : 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride 5 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between, 
With memorable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 



THE TRAVELLER. 37 

Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue $ 
And ev'n in pennance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state ; 
At her command the palace learnt to rise, 
Again the long-falPn column sought the skies ; 
The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teemM with human form : 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 
While nought remained of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supply ? d 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-falPn mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 



38 THE TRAVELLER. 

Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 

The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : 

Processions form'd for piety and love, 

A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. 

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, 

The sports of children satisfy the child : 

Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul : 

While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 

In happier meanness occupy the mind : 

As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, 

Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, 

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 

And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul turn from them, turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
No product here the barren hills afford 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword : 



THE TRAVELLER. 39 

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho ? small. 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loath his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose^ 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed 5 



40 THE TRAVELLER, 

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze y 
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd : 
Yet let them only share the praises due, 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast, 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest : 



THE TRAVELLER. 41 

Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desire and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a mouldering fire, 
Unqueneh'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire * 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Til), buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low 5 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run 5 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest : 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultur'd walks,and charm the way, 
d2 



42 THE TRAVELLER, 

These, far dispersed, on tim'rous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn ; and France displays her bright domain : 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew : 
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 
Yet would the village praise my wond'rous pow'r, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; 
And the gay grandsire, skilPd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore. 
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honour forms the social temper here : 



THE TRAVELLER. 43 

Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
Here passes current 5 paid from hand to hand. 
It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land : 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They please, are pleas ? d, they give to get esteem, 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise \ 
For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought \ 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart 5 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace $ 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year : 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 



44 THE TRAVELLER. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile : 
The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescu'd from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 



THE TRAVELLER. 45 

Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts 

Convenience, plenty, elegance and arts ; 

But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 

E'en liberty itself is bartered here. 

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 

The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 

A land of tyrants^ and a den of slaves, 

Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, 

And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 

Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heav'ns ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold 5 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring 5 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspis glide ; 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on ev'ry spray 5 
Creation's mildest charms are there combing 
Extremes are only in the master's mind \ 



46 tHE TRAVELLER. 

Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 

With daring aims irregularly great : 

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 

I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 

By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, 

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 

True to imagin'd right, above control, 

While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 

And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy, 
But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown 5 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd 5 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore ; 



THE TRAVELLER, 47 

Till, over-wrought, the gen'ral system feels 
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote, for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
Ye pow'rs of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel 5 
Thou transitory flow'r, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring sun ; 



48 THE TRAVELLER. 

Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure ; 
For just experience tells in ev'ry soil, 
That those who think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach 
Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow. 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh then how blind to all that truth requires. 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise to arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warms : 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal pow'r to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law m 7 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 



THE TRAVELLER. 49 

Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
When first ambition struck at regal pow'r ; 
And thus, polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore 1 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ^ 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, 
In barren solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call. 
The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? 



50 THE TRAVELLER. 

E ? en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dang'rous ways ; 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim 5 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centers in the mind. 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In ev'ry government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
Still to ourselves in ev'ry place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 



THE TlL&VELItER , 



Eezi now-, perhaps, as "there soiae pilgrim strays 
Tkrougn tangled forests, an i -through, dang-'r oris -ways; 

"Where "beasts -with ni an divided, empire claim, 

— The pensive e^ile, hending "with. Ms woe , 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to g>o. 




B-Tisis-la 9c. 



PUBLISHED BX S. O. &OODB.1CH H. -&. B_ T i 



THE TRAVELLER. 51 

The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
To men remote from pow ? r but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



In the Respublica Hungarica, there is an account of a 
^desperate rebellion in the year 1514, headed by two broth- 
el's, George and Luke Zeck. When it was quelled, George, 
not Luke, was punished by his head being* encircled with a 
red-hot iron crown. Boswell pointed out Goldsmiths mis- 
take. 



THE 



1S» 



FIRST PRINTED IN 1769. 



TO 



SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 



DEAR SIR, 

I can have no expectations in an address of this 
kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish 
toy own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, 
as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to 
excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of your 
judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than 
you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I 
never paid much attention, I must be indulged at 
present in following my affections. The only dedi- 
cation I ever made was to my brother, because 
I loved him better than most other men. He is since 
dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. 



56 

How far you may be pleased with the versification 
and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not 
pretend to inquire : but I know you will object (and 
indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur 
in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is 
no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments 
are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. 
To this I can scarce make any other answer, than 
that I sincerely believe what I have written 5 that I 
have taken all possible pains in my country excur- 
sions, for these four or five years past, to be certain 
of what I allege ; and that all my views and inquir- 
ies have led me to believe those miseries real, which 
I here attempt to display. But this is not the place 
to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be de- 
populating or not ; the discussion would take up 
much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an 
indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long 
preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a 
long poem. 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I 
inveigh against the increase of our luxuries 5 and 
here also I expect the shout of modern politicians 



57 

against me. For twenty or thirty years past it has 
been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the 
greatest national advantages 5 and all the wisdom of 
antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still, 
however, I must remain a professed ancient on that 
head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudi- 
cial to states by which so many vices are introduced, 
and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed 
so much has been poured out of late on the other 
side of the question, that merely for the sake of no - 
velty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be 
in the right. 

I am, DEAR SIR, 

Your sincere friend, 

and ardent admirer, 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 




Dcrwn -wn.ene yoiL -AxLcKoiirLF vessel spreads tne saiL, 
That idly waiting 1 flaps -with, ev'ry gale ■ 
■Dorwirwaicl lliey move a nielaiicla.oly Daxta 



III 



□"EL G GOODRICH HA.BT — 



TFIE 



DESERTED VILLAGE. 



Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain ? 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : 

Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please : 

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 

How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm, 

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 



60 THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 

How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labour free, 
Let up their sports beneath the spreading tree : 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old surveyed : 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And slights of art and feats of strength went round. 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd ; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
By holding out to tire each other down 5 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms,sweet village! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught ev'n toil to please ; 
These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smilling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn 5 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 61 

Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen. 

And desolation saddens all thy green : 

One only master grasps the whole domain. 

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain 5 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But chok'd with sedges works its weedy way ; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest 5 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 

And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries. 

Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall ; 

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When ev'ry rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 



62 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health 5 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose 5 
And ev'ry want to luxury ally'd, 
And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, 
LivM in each look, and brighten'd all the green 5 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 63 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has giv'n my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 



64 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep $ 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His Heav'n commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below 5 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
To sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filPd each pause the nightingale had made. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE, bi 

But now the sounds of population fail, 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 

But all the blooming flush of life is fled : 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 

She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn 5 

She only left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiPd, 

And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 

Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; 

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, 

By doctrines fashion M to the varying hour ; 
f2 



66 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize. 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain $ 
The long remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast 5 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim ? d kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away 5 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch,and show'd how fields were won. 
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 67 

He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where -parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevaiPd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Ev'n children folio w ? d, with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv'n, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n. 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 



68 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread; 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay, 
There in his noisy mansion, skilPd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school : 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew 5 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
*Twas certain he could write and cypher too 5 
Lands he could measure, terms ^and tides presage, 
And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge : 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 
For ev ? n though vanquished he could argue still 5 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 69 

While words of learned length, and thundering sound, 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rangM around ; 
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head should carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot, 

| Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retirM, 

\ Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door : 
The chest contrivM a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day 5 

i The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
And twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilPd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, gay 5 



70 THE DESERTED VILLAGE* 

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear \ 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway 5 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 71 

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfin'd. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore 5 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supply'd ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 



11 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
While thus the land, adonvd for pleasure all, 
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd \ 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While scourg'd by famine, from the smiling land 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 73 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray 'd, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd. 

If to the city sped— What waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind 5 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp display 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way ; 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

G 



74 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies : 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn j 

Now lost to all \ her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinch 'd with cold,and shrinking from the show'r, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train* 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 75 

Far different there from all that charmed before. 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around : 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they 5 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravagM landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from ev'ry former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. [day, 
Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, ev ? ry pleasure past, 
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last, 



76 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 

For seats like these beyond the western main 5 

And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 

Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 

The good old sire the first prepared to go 

To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 

He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 

The fond companion of his helpless years, 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 

And left a lover's for a father's arms. 

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 

And blest the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ; 

And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 

And clasp 'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear 5 

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 

In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by heav'n's decree, 
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 77 

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 

Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 

At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, 

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 

Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound, 

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 

And half the bus'ness of destruction done ; 

E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 

I see the rural virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 

That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 

Downward they move a melancholy band, 

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 

Contented toil, and hospitable care, 

And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 

And piety with wishes placed above, 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 

Unfit, in these degen'rate times of shame, 

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame : 
g2 



78 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry^ 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so $ 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well ; 
Farewell ! and O ! where'er thy voice be try'd, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of th ? inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted Truth, with thy persuasive train 5 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 
While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



'HE DESERTED "VZLX^tJE . 



yon. -widow d solitary thing 

Tliat feebly Lends he side the plashy spring 
She wretehed. matron fored in age for hread 

To strip the "brook with mantling cresses spread 

She. only left of all the harmless train 

Tne sadhistorian of the pensive plain . 




PUBLISHED BI 



ittUEL G. (JOODEICH 



THE 

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765. 



TO 



C&e Jg) timer of tje &u Sfametf^ CJronirfe, 

JUNE 1767. 
SIR, 

As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper 
controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be 
as concise as possible in informing a correspondent 
of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, 
because I thought the book was a good one ; and I 
think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller 
that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, 
I was misinformed, and my reading was not exten- 
sive enough to set me right. 

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of 
having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, 
from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not 

* " The Friar of Orders Gray." 



82 

think there is any great resemblance between the two 
pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is ta- 
ken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years 
ago \ and he (as we both considered these things as 
trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, 
the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan 
to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad 
of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I 
may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty 
anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing : and 
were it not for the busy disposition of' some of your 
correspondents, the public should never have known 
that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am 
obliged to his friendship and learning for communi- 
cations of a much more important nature. 

I am, sir, 

Yours, &c. 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 




Turn, g-eiatle hermit of the dale, 
And £pxi&e ray lonely way, 

To where yon. taper cheers the vale, 
"With. liospitaJble ray, 









THE 



HERMIT. 



" Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way, 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

" For here forlorn and lost I tread 5 
With fainting steps and slow 5 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem length'ning as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
" To tempt the dang'rous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 



84 THE HERMIT. 

u Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

u Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whatever my cell bestows ; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

Ci No flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter I condemn : 
Taught by that Pow'r that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, 

And water from the spring. 

u Then, pilgrim, turn, — thy cares forego j 
All earth-born cares are wrong : 

Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long." 



THE HERMIT. 

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay , 
A refuge to the neighboring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Requir'd a master's care ; 
The wicket, op'ning with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
And cheer'd his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gaily prest, and smil'd ; 

And skilled in legendary lore, 
The ling'ring hours beguiPd. 



86 THE HERMIT, 

Around in sympathetic mirth 

Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling faggot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To sooth the stranger's woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart. 
And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spy ? d, 
With answering care opprest : 

ei And whence, unhappy youth/' he cry ? d ? 
" The sorrows of thy breast ? 

a From better habitations spurn'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ; 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 

Or unregarded love ? 

u Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things. 

JNlore trifling still than they. 



THE HERMIT. 87 

u And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame. 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? 

" And love is still an emptier sound. 

The modern fair-one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

^ For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said : 
But while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view ; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 



88 THE HERMIT. 

. u And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn/' she cry'd ; 
" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where heav'n and you reside. 

u But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

" My father hVd beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was marked as mine. 

He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms 

Unnumber'd suitors came. 
Who prais'd me for imputed charms. 

And felt, or feign'd a flame. 

" Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 

Among the rest*young Edwin bow'd, 
But never talk'd of love. 



THE HERMIT. 89 

" In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth or pow'r had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 

But these were all to me. 

u The blossom op'ning to the day, 

The dews of heav'n renVd, 
Could nought of purity display 

To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossoms of the tree, 

With charms inconstant shine ; 
Their charms were his, but, woe to me, 

Their constancy was mine. 

u For still I try'd each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion toucM my heart, 

I triumphed in his pain. 

" Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride 5 

And sought a solitude forlorn 

In secret where he died. 
h2 



90 THE HERMIT. 

u But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
And well my life shall pay 5 

I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
And stretch me where he lay. 

u And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die 5 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I." 

u Forbid it, Heaven !" the hermit cry'd, 
And clasp'd her to his breast ;. 

The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide,. 
'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 

u Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restor'd to love and thee. 

u Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And ev'ry care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that's mine ? 



THE HERMIT. 91 

" No, never, from this hour to part, 

We'll live and love so true, 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." 



THE 

HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

an extort* to fUtfc Clare* 

FIRST PRINTED IN 1765. 



Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter ; 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help re- 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : [gretting 
I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view, 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu : 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 



94 HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, 
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ; 
Well, suppose it a bounce— sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 

But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, 
It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* 
To go on with my tale — as I gaz'd on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch : 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynold's undrest, 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best : 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
With the how, and the who, and the where and the 

when, 
There's H— d, and C— -y, and H— rth, and H— ff, 
I think they love ven'son — I know they love beef. 
There's my countryman Higgins — Oh ! let him alone, 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 

* Lord Clare's nephew. 



HAUNCH OF VENISON. 95 

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt, 

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, 

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd ; 

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 

And he smil'd as he look'd at the ven'son and me. 

" What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! 

Your own I suppose — or is it in waiting ?" 

a Why whose should it be ?" cried I with a flounce ; 

" I get these things often" — but that was a bounce : 

" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 

Are pleas'd to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 

" If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 
u I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words — I insist on't — precisely at three : [there ; 
We'll have Johnson, and Burk ; all the wits will be 
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
What say you — a pasty, it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 



96 HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end ; 
No stirring, I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend !" 
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And " nobody with me at sea but myself* f 9 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we were all to dine 
(A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine,) 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
" For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. j 

* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness 
Henry Duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor. 



HAUNCH OF VENISON, 97 

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some think he writes Cinna— -he owns to Panurge." 
While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, 
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides there were spinach and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
But what vex'd me most, was that d 'd Scottish 

rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 

brogue, 
And, u madam," quoth he " may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on 5 
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 



98 HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

a The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
u I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." 
" O — ho !" quoth my friend, a he'll come on in a trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
There's a pasty" — u A pasty !" repeated the Jew ; 
" I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." — 
" What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echo'dthe Scot ; 
" Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." — 
" We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
" We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. 
While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay 'd, 
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ; 
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
Wak'd Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 
But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her ?) 
That she came with some terrible news from the baker. 
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty in shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus— but let similes drop — 
And now that I think on't the story may stop, 



HAUNCH OF VENISON. 99 

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplac'd, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning-— 
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning \ 
At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own \ 
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



RETALIATION. 



FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774. AFTER THE AU- 
THOR'S DEATH. 



[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at 
the St. James* Coffee-house. — One day it was proposed 
to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and per- 
son, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on 
for Retaliation, and at their next meeting* produced the 
following- poem.] 



Op old when Scarron his companions invited. 
Each guest brought his dish and the feast was united. 
If our landlord* supplies us with beef, and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best 
dish : 

* The master of the St. James 5 Coffee-house, where the 
Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, 
occasionally dined. 

i2 



102 RETALIATION. 

Our dean* shall be venison, just fresh from the plains, 
Our Burkef shall be tongue,with the garnish of brains, 
Our WillJ shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, 
And Dick|| with his pepper shall heighten the savour: 
Our Cumberland's^ sweet-bread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain : 
Our Garrick'sff a sallad y for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner full certain I am, 
That Ridge J| is anchovy, and Reynolds]||| is lamb ; 

* Dr. Bernard, dean of Deny in Ireland. 

f Edmund Burke. 

+ Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, 
and member for Bedvvin. 

j| Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. 

§ Richard Cumberland, author of the West-Indian, Fash- 
ionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. 

** Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor (late bishop of Salis- 
bury) an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less dis- 
tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound 
critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather for- 
geries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, 
and Bower's History of the Popes. 

ff David Garrick. 

W Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the 
Irish bar. 

Dl| Sir Joshua Reynolds. 



RETALIATION. 103 

That Hicky's* a capon, and by the same rule. 
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, 
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
At least, in six weeks I could not find them out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was 

such, 
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much : 
Who born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : 

* An eminent attorney. 



104 RETALIATION. 

Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, 
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote, 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining ; 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge disobedient 5 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew the good that was in't ; 
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home $ 
Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none $ 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his 

own. 

* Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. 



RETALIATION. 105 

Here lies honest Richard*, whose fate I must sigh at 5 
Alas ! that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! 
Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick 5 
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wishM to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts : 
A flatt'ring painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
And comedy wonders at being so fine : 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 



* Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly 
fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the 
Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of re- 
tributive justice for breaking his jests on other people. 



106 RETALIATION, 

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud : 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few y 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself. 

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re- 
clines : 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenricksf shall lecture; 



* The unfortunate Dr. Dodd. 

f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil tavern, 
under the title of " The School of Shakespeare." 



RETALIATION. 107 

M acpherson* write bombast, and call it a style 5 
Our Townshend makes speeches, and I shall compile; 
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, 
No countryman living their tricks to discover \ 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the 
dark. 
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, 

i An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man : 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 

I As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings — a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
And be-plaster ? d with rouge his own natural red. 

! On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 

I ? Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 



* James Macpherson, who lately, from the mere force of 
1 his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 



108 RETALIATION. 






Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. 
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them 

back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallsf so grave. 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 

gave ! 

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, 
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais ? d ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 

*Hugh Kelley, author of False Delicacy, Word to the' 
Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. 
| Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 



RETALIATION. 109 

Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill. 

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will : 

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with 

love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant crea- 
ture, 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser : 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that : 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no ! 
Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and burn ye — 
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind : 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand : 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 

K 



110 RETALIATION. 

Still born to improve us in every part, 

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 

When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of 

hearing \ 

When they talk'd of their Raphael's, Corregio's, and 
stuff, 

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 



* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be 
under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the pub- 
lisher received the following 1 epitaph onMr. Whitefoord,* 
from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. 



Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, 
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a gravef man : 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun : 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoicM in a pun 5 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; 
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotchman, from pride, and from prejudice free 5 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 



* Mr.Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 

f Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith 
used to say it was impossible to keep him company, with- 
out being infected with the itch of punning. 



112 RETALIATION. 

What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind 

Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd ! 

Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar. 

Yet content " if the table he set in a roar f* 

Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 

Yet happy if Woodfall* confessed him a wit. 

Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copied his sqibs, and re-echo ? d his jokes 3 
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine 5 
Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
Cross-readings, ship -news, and mistakes of the press. f 

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit : 
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, 
" Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd 
muse." 

* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 

■j* Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town 
with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Ad- 
vertiser. 



RETALIATION. 113 

To this Postscript the Reader may not be displeased to 
find added the following" 

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. GOLDSMITH; 

OR, 
SUPPLEMENT TO HIS RETALIATION. 

FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOB AUGUST, 1778. 

Doctor, according to our wishes. 
You've character'd us all in dishes 5 
Serv'd up a sentimental treat 
Of various emblematic meat : 
And now it's time, I trust, you'll think 
Your company should have some drink : 
Else, take my word for it, at least 
Your Irish friends won't like your feast. 
Ring, then, and see that there is plac'd 
To each according to his taste. 

To Douglas, fraught with learned stock 
Of critic lore, give ancient hock ; 
Let it be genuine, bright, and fine, 
Pure unadulterated wine ; 
For if there's fault in taste, or odour, 
He'll search it, as he search'd out Lauder, 

To Johnson, philosophic sage, 

The moral Mentor of the age. 
k2 



114 RETALIATION, 

Religion's friend, with soul sincere. 
With melting heart, but look austere, 
Give liquor of an honest sort, 
And crown his cup with priestly Port. 

Now fill the glass with gay Champagne, 
And frisk it in a livelier strain ; 
Quick, quick, the sparkling nectar quaff, 
Drink it, dear Garrick ! — drink and laugh ! 

Pour forth to Reynolds, without stint, 
Rich Burgundy, of ruby tint ; 
If e'er his colours chance to fade, 
This brilliant hue shall come in aid, 
With ruddy lights refresh the faces, 
And warm the bosoms of the Graces ! 

To Burke a pure libation bring, 
Fresh drawn from clear Castalian spring j 
With civic oak the goblet bind, 
Fit emblem of his patriot mind ; 
Let Clio at his table sip, 
And Hermes hand it to his lip. 

Fill out my friend, the dean* of Derry, 
A bumper of conventual sherry ! 

Give Ridge and Hicky, generous souls ! 
Of whisky punch convivial bowls ; 
But let the kindred Burkes regale 
With potent draughts of Wicklow ale ; 

* Dr. Barnard. 



RETALIATION. 115 

To C*****k next in order turn ye, 
And grace him with the vines of Ferney ! 
Now, Doctor, you're an honest sticker, 
So take your glass, and choose your liquor : 
Wilt have it steep'd in Alpine snows, 
Or damask'd at Silenus' nose ? 
With Wakefield's vicar sip your tea, 
Or to Thalia drink with me ? 
And, Doctor, I would have you know it, 
An honest, I, though humble poet ; 
I scorn the sneaker like a toad, 
Who drives his cart the Dover road, 
There, traitor to his country's trade, 
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade : 
Hence with all such ! for you and I 
By English wares will live and die. 
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire : 
Here, boy ! — a pot of Thrale's entire ! 



THE 



DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 



A TALE. 



Secluded from domestic strife, 

Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 

A fellowship at twenty-five, 

Made him the happiest man alive ; 

He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, 

And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 
Could any accident impair 1 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain, arriv'd at thirty-six ? 
O had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town ! 



DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 117 

Or Flavia been content to stop 
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop. 
O had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze. 

O ! But let exclamation cease ; 

Her presence banish'd all his peace : 

So with decorum all things carried, 

Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 

Need we expose to vulgar sight 
The raptures of the bridal night ? 
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground ? 
Or draw the curtains clos'd around ? 
Let it suffice, that each had charms : 
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms 5 
And, though she felt his usage rough, 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honey-moon like lightning flew ; 
The second brought its transports too : 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss ; 
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss ; 
But when, a twelvemonth passed away, 
Jack found his goddess made of clay - 7 



118 DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Found half the charms that decked her face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
But still the worst remain'd behind, 
That very face had robb'd her mind. 

SkilPd in no other arts was she 
But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
And just as humour rose or fell, 
By turns a slattern or a belle ; 
? Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, 
Half naked at a ball or race 5 
But when at home, at board or bed, 
Five greasy night-caps wrapt her head. 
Could so much beauty condescend 
To be a dull domestic friend ? 
Could any curtain lectures bring 
To decency so fine a thing ? 
In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; 
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy : 
The squire and captain took their stations, 
And twenty other near relations. 



DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 119 

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
While all their hours were past between 
Insulting repartee or spleen. 

Thus as her faults each day were known, 
He thinks her features coarser grown : 
He fancies ev'ry vice she shows, 
Or thins her lip, or points her nose : 
Whenever rage or envy rise, 
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ; 
He knows not how, but so it is, 
Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
And though her fops are wondrous civil, 
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now to perplex the ravelPd noose, 
As each a different way pursues, 
While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promis'd to hold them on for life, 
That dire disease, whose ruthless pow ? r 
Withers the beauty's transient flow'r, 
Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare 
LevelPd its terrors at the fair : 



120 DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

And rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
Reflected now a perfect fright : 
Each former art she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes. 
In vain she tries her paste and creams 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
Her country beaux and city cousins, 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens : 
The squire himself was seen to yield, 
And e'en the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
Perceiving others fairly flown, 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old ; 
With modesty her cheeks were dy ? d, 
Humility displaces pride ; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean : 



DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 121 

No more presuming on her sway. 
She learns good nature every day : 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



THE 

LOGICIANS REFUTED. 

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 



Logicians have but ill defin'd 

As rational the human mind ; 

Reason, they say, belongs to man ? 

But let them prove it if they can. 

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 

By ratiocinations specious, 

Have strove to prove with great precision, 

With definition and division, 

Homo est ralione preditum ; 

But for my soul I cannot credit ? em : 

iVnd must in spite of them maintain 

That man and all his ways are vain ; 

And that this boasted lord of nature 

Is both a weak and erring creature : 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 12(1 

This instinct is a surer guide 

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ^ 

And that brute beasts are far before 'em, 

Deus est anima bruiorum. 

Who ever knew an honest brute 

At law his neighbour prosecute ; 

Bring action for assault and battery, 

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery ? 

O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd, 

No politics disturb their mind ; 

They eat their meals, and take their sporty 

Nor know who's in or out at court 5 

They never to the levee go 

To treat as dearest friend a foe ; 

They never importune his grace, 

Nor ever cringe to men in place \ 

Nor undertake a dirty job, 

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob ; 

Fraught with invective they ne'er go 

To folks at Pater-noster-row : 

No judges, fidlers, dancing-masters, 

No pickpockets, or poetasters, 



124 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED, 

Are known to honest quadrupeds $ 
No single brute his fellow leads ; 
Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
Mfor cut each other's throats for pay, 
Of beasts, it is confes'd, the ape 
Comes nearest us in human shape. 
Like man, he imitates each fashion, 
And malice is his ruling passion : 
But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him, humbly, cringing, wait 
Upon the minister of state : 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air, 
And to perform takes equal care. 
He in his turn finds imitators \ 
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters, 
Their masters' manners still contract, 
And footmen lords and dukes can act ; 
Thus at the court, both great and small 
Behave alike — for all ape all. 



A 

NEW SIMILE, 

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 



Long had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind ; 
The modern scribbling kind, who write 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite : 
Till reading, I forget what day on, 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there, 
To suit my purpose to a hair ; 
But let us not proceed too furious, 
First please to turn to god Mercurius : 
You'll find him pictured at full length 
In book the second, page the tenth : 
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 

And now proceed we to our simile. 

m2 



126 A NEW SIMILE. 

Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
Wings upon either side — mark that. 
Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? 
Why these denote a brain of feather; 
A brain of feather ! very right. 
With wit that's flighty, learning light j 
Such as to modern bards decreed ; 
\ just comparison — proceed. 

In the next place, his feet peruse, 
Wings grow again from both his shoes ; 
Designed no doubt, their part to bear, 
And waft his godship through the air 5 
And here my simile unites : 
For, in a modern poet's flights, 
Fm sure it may be justly said, 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t ? observe his hand, 
FilPd with a snake-encircled wand 5 
By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
And highly fam'd for several uses : 
To wit — most wondrously endu'd, 
No poppy water half so good ; 



A NEW SIMILE. 127 

For let folks only get a touch. 

Its soporific virtue's such, 

Though ne'er so much awake before, 

That quickly they begin to snore. 

Add too, what certain writers tell, 

With this he drives men's souls to hell. 

Now to apply, begin we then : 
His wand's a modern authors pen ; 
The serpents round about it twin'd 
Denote him of the reptile kind ; 
Denote the rage with which he writes, 
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites 5 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Alike too both conduce to sleep. 
This difference only, as the god 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf 
Instead of others damns himself. 

And here my simile almost tript, 
Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
Well ! what of that ? out with it — stealing : 



128 A NEW SIMILE. 

In which all modern bards agree, 
Being each as great a thief as he : 
But e'en this deity's existence 
Shall lend my simile assistance. 
Our modern bards ! why what a pox 
Are they but senseless stones or blocks ? 



DESCRIPTION 



OF AN 



AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 



Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champaign, 
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane 5 
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug 5 
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, 
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread 5 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
The royal game of goose was there in view, 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew 5 



130 an author's bed-chamber. 

The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, 
And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black 

face : 
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, 
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board $ 
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
A cap by night a stocking all the day ! 



THE 

CLOWNS REPLY. 



John Trott was desir'd by two witty peers, 
To tell them the reason why asses had ears 1 
" An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to 

letters, 
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 
However, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, 
As I hope to be sav'd ! without thinking on asses." 



AN 

ELEGY 

ON 

THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 



Good people all, of ev'ry sort, 
Give ear unto my song ; 

And if you find it wondrous shorty 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 
To comfort friends and foes ; 

The naked ev'ry day he clad, 
When he put on his clothes. 



ELEGY ON A MAD DOG. 133 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends $ 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 

The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To ev'ry Christian eye 5 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they ly'd 5 

The man recovered of the bite, 
The dog it was that died. 

N 



AN 

ELEGY 

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, 

MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 



Gr>oD people all, with one accord, 
Lament for Madam Blaize, 

Who never wanted a good word — 
From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom passed her door, 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please, 
With manners wondrous winning; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 



ELEGY ON MRS, MARY BLAIZE. 135 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size ; 
She never slumber'd in her pew — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more 5 
The king himself has follow'd her — 

When she has walked before. 

But now her wealth and fin'ry fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short-all ; 
The doctors found, when she was dead, — 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 

For Kent-street well may say, 
That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth more, — 

She had not died to-day. 



ON 

A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, 

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 



IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. 



Sure 'twas by Providence design'd 5 
Rather in pity, than in hate, 

That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
To save him from Narcissus' fate. 



THE GIFT. 



TO 



IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. 



Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 
Dear mercenary beauty, 

What annual ofPring shall I make 
Expressive of my duty ? 

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 
Should I at once deliver, 

Say, would the angry fair one prize 
The gift who slights the giver ? 

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 

My rivals give — and let 'em. 

If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 

I'll give them when I get ? em. 
N 2 



138 THE GIFT. 

Fll give — but not the full-blown rose, 
Or rose-bud more in fashion 5 

Such short-liv'd ofF'rings but disclose 
A transitory passion. 

I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 
Not less sincere than civil : 

I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid, 
I'll give thee — to the devil. 



STANZAS ON WOMAN- 



When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can sooth her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away 1 

The only art her guilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom — is, to die. 



LINES, 



INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF 
APRIL, 3, 1800. 



E'en have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew, 
The budding rose its infant bloom display \ 

When first its virgin tints unfold to view, 

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. 

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, 

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek ; 

I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, 

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. 



SONG, 

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUN© IN THE COMEDY OP 

" SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." 



Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. 
He, fond youth, that could carry me, 
Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally and combat the ruiner : 
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover 5 
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 



SONG. 



Weeping, murmuring, complaining. 

Lost to ev'ry gay delight 5 
Myra, too sincere for feigning, 

Fears th' approaching bridal night. 

Yet why impair thy bright perfection ! 

Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
Had Myra followed my direction, 

She long had wanted cause of fear. 



SONG. 

FROM 
THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. 



The wretch condemned with life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And ev ? ry pang that rends the heart, 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, 
Adorns and cheers the way ; 

And still, as darker grows the night, 
Emits a brighter ray. 



SONG. 



O memory ! thou fond deceiver^ 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain ; 

Thou, like the world, th ? opprest oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ! 

And he who wants each other blessing, 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



STANZAS 



ON 



THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 



Amidst the clamour of exulting joys. 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 

And quells the raptures which from pleasures start. 

Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, 
Sighing we pay, and think e ? en conquest dear \ 

Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy- pronouncing eyes : 

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 



EPITAPH 

ON 

DR. PARNELL. 



This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle ParnelPs name, 

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, 

That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry way ! 

Celestial themes confess ? d his tuneful aid ; 

And Heav'n that lent him genius, was repaid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 

The transitory breath of fame below : 

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 

While converts thank their poet in the skies 



EPITAPH 

ON 

EDWARD PURDON. 



Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
Who long was a bookseller's hack ; 

He led such a damnable life in this world — 
I don't think he'll wish to come back. 



PROLOGUE, 



WRITTEN J1JYD SPOKEN 

BY THE POET LABERIUS, 

WHOM CiESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 
rRESEUVEI) BY MACHO BICS. 



What ! no way left to shun th ? inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
Scarce half alive, oppressed with many a year, 
What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 
A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside 5 
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappaPd by fear, 
With honest thrift I held my honor dear : 
But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honour is no more ; 



PROLOGUE, 149 

For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine 5 
Him I obey, whom Heav ? n himself obeys, 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please. 
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame, 
And cancel at three score a life of fame 5 
No more my titles shall my children tell, 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well 5 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honour ends. 



©2 



PROLOGUE 



TO 



THE TRAGEDY OF ZOBEIDE. 



In these bold times, when learning's sons explore 
The distant climates, and the savage shore \ 
When wise astronomers to India steer, 
And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 
Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling ; 
Our bard into the general spirit enters, 
And fits his little frigate for adventures. 
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, 
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading- 
Yet ere he lands has ordered me before, 
To make an observation on the shore. 
Where are we driven ? our reck'ning sure is lost ! 
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 



PROLOGUE. 151 

Lord ! what a sultry climate am I under ! 

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 

[Upper Gallery. 

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 

'em- [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em — 

[Balconies. 
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound— [Stage. 

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : 

[Tasting them. 
Th' inhabitants are cannibals I fear : 
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
O, there the people are — best keep my distance ; 
Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance $ 
Our ship's well stor'd — in yonder creek we've laid her, 
His honour is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
What, no reply to promises so ample ? 
— I'd best step back — and order up a sample. 



EPILOGUE, 



SPOKEN BY 



IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 



Hold! prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense ; 
Fd speak a word or two to ease my conscience. 
My pride forbids it ever should be said, 
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head ; 
That I found humour in a pyeball vest, 
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 

[Takes off his Mask, 
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? 
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth ; 
In thy black aspect ev'ry passion sleeps, 
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 
How hast thou filPd the scene with all thy broody 
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued I 



EPILOGUE. 153 

Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses 5 
Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
And from above the dangling deities. 
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ? 
May rosin 'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
No — I will act, I'll vindicate the stage : 
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
Off ! off ! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! 
The mad'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme : 
Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds — soft — 

'twas but a dream. 
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating; 
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
'Twas thus that iEsop's stag, a creature blameless, 
Yet something vain like one that shall be nameless, 
Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 
And cavill'd at his image in the flood. 
" The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick 

shanks, 
They neither have my gratitude nor thanks : 



154 EPILOGUE. 

They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! 
But for a head — yes, yes, I have a head. 
How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 
My horns ! I'm told horns are the fashion now." 
Whilst thus he spoke, astonished ! to his view, 
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. 
Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thundering from be- 
hind, 
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : 
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways 5 
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. 
At length his silly head, so priz'd before, 
Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
And at one bound he saves himself, like me. 

[Taking a jump through the Stage Door. 



EPILOGUE 



TO 



$0x#, Charlotte Henojr'jes 
COMEDY OF THE SISTER. 



What ! five long acts — and all to make us wiser ! 
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
Had she consulted me, she would have made 
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; 
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage 
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking ; 
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of think- 
ing. 
Well ? since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
What if I give a masquerade ! — I will. [cue : 

Eut how ? ay, there's the rub ! [pausing] — I've got my 
The world's a masquerade ! the maskers, you, you, 
you, \To Boxes, Pit and Gallery. 



156 EPILOGUE, 

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! 
False wit, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! 
Statesmen with bridles on \ and close beside 'em, 
Patriots in party-colour 'd suits that ride 'em. 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. 
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. 
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
And tries to kill, ere she's got pow'r to cure. 
Thus 'tis with all— their chief and constant care 
Is to seem ev'ry thing but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion 5 
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round pa- 
rade, 
Looking, as who should say, damme ! who's afraid ? 

[Mimicking. t 
Strip but his vizor off, and sure I am 
You'll find his lionship a very lamb. 



EPILOGUE. 157 

Yon politician, famous in debate, 

Perhaps to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ! 

Yet, when he deigns his real shape t ? assume, 

He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 

Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 

And seems to ev'ry gazer all in white, 

If with a bribe his candour you attack, 

He bows, turns round, and whip— the man's in black! 

Yon critic, too— but whither do I run ? 

1 If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too : 

) Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. 



EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN BY 

MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 



Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very tow as begin- 
ning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who 
stands fult before her, and curtsies to the Audi- 
ence. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your business 
here? 

MISS CATLEY. 

The Epilogue. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

The Epilogue ? 

MISS CATLEY. 

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 



EPILOGUE, 159 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue? I 
bring it. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. 

RECITATIVE. 

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
Suspend your conversation while I sing. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Why sure the girl's beside herself : an Epilogue of 

singing, 
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. 
Besides, a singer in a comic set ! 
Excuse me, ma'am ; I know the etiquette. 

MISS CATLEY. 

What if we leave it to the House ? 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

The House !— Agreed. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Agreed. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed. 



160 EPILOGUE. 

And first I hope, you'll readily agree 
I've all the critics and the wits for me. 
They, I am sure, will answer my commands - 
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands : 
What, no return ? I find too late, I fear, 
That modern judges seldom enter here. 

MISS CATLEY. 

I'm for a different set — Old men whose trade is 
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 

RECITATIVE. 

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling ? 
Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling. 

AIR — COTILLION* 

Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye : 
Pity take on your swain so clever, 
Who without your aid must die. 

Yes, I shall die, hu^ hu, hu, hu. 
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho. [Da capo. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Let all the old pay homage to your merit : 
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 



EPILOGUE. 161 

Ye traveled tribe, ye macaroni train, 

Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, 

Who take a trip to Paris once a year 

To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here, 

Lend me your hands. — O fatal news to tell, 

Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed ! 
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 
Where are the cheels ! Ah, ah, I well discern 
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairne : 
A bonny young lad is my Jockey. 

AIR. 

I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 
And be unco merry when you are but gay 5 
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 
My voice shall be ready to carol away 

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, 

Make but of all your fortune one va toule : 
p2 



162 EPILOGUE. 

Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
" I hold the odds — Done, done, with you, with you : 
Ye barristers so fluent with grimace, 
u My lord — your lordship misconceives the case :" 
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, 
" I wish IM been calPd in a little sooner :" 
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
Come end the contest here, and aid my party. 

AIR — BALEINAMONY. 
MISS CATLEY. 

Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
Assist me I pray, in this woful attack \ 
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, 
When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang back : 
For you're always polite and attentive, 
Still to amuse us inventive, 
And death is your only preventive : 

Your hands and your voices for me. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring, 
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ! 



EPILOGUE. 163 

MISS CATLEY. 

And that our friendship may remain unbroken, 
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Agreed. 
Agreed. 



MISS. CATLEY. 



MRS. BULKLEY. 

And now, with late repentance, 
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence : 
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit 
To thrive by flatt'ry, though he starves by wit. 

[Exeunt. 



EPILOGUE, 



INTENDED FOR 



MRS. BULKLEY. 



There is a place, so Ariosto sings, 

A treasury for lost and missing things : 

Lost human wits have places there assigned them, 

And they, who lose their senses, there may find them. 

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age ? 

The Moon, says he : — but I affirm, the Stage : 

At least in many things, I think, I see 

His lunar and our mimic world agree. 

Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone, 

We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. 

Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 

And sure the folks of both are lunatics, 



EPILOGUE. 165 

But in this parallel my best pretence is, 
That mortals visit both to find their senses. 
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, 
Come thronging to collect their scattered wits. 
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
Hither the affected city dame advancing, 
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing, 
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, 
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
The gamester too, whose wits all high or low, 
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
The Mohawk too — with angry phrases stor'd, 
As " Dam'me, Sir," and, " Sir, I wear a sword j w 
Her§ lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating, 
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
Here come the sons of scandal and of news, 
But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser 5 



166 EPILOGUE. 

Has he not seen how you your favour place 
On sentimental queens and lords in lace ? 
Without a star, or coronet, or garter, 
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
No high-life scenes, no sentiment : — the creature 
Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 
Yes, he's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, 
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 



615 ** 



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